


Captain America Has No Time for Your Dumbassery

by RurouniHime



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Con Artists, Established Relationship, M/M, No really Steve has got this, Phone Calls & Telephones, Sam has no idea how he got here, Sassy Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Tony might die laughing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:04:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No, seriously, stop calling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain America Has No Time for Your Dumbassery

The oven pings and Steve hauls himself up from the couch.

“Hey,” Tony says and paws at Steve’s leg. “Hey.”

“Yes, Tony, there will be enough lasagna for you.”

“Need help?” Sam asks from his sprawl in the beanbag chair.

Steve waves him off and heads into the kitchen. “At ease, soldier. Just putting a tray in the oven.”

Tony kicks the beanbag. “So.”

Sam collapses back, limbs akimbo. “Hell, no.”

“To what?”

“To all of it.”

In the kitchen, the fridge opens and closes. Glasses clink. Tony sniffs and holds out his hands. “Alright, but don’t come crying to me about your inferior wings.”

Sam lurches—flounders, he flounders in an upright direction. Ends up pointing a finger at Tony’s nose instead. “Who saved your tinsel ass last week?”

Tony shrugs. “Could have been quicker.”

“What? I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over all the adrenaline junkie.”

“Excuse you very much.”

Steve brings glasses of soda out to the table and sets them down. His phone rings and he fishes it out of his pocket. “Hello?”

“Look, all I’m saying is that they could use extra thrust!” Tony flaps his hands close up against his sides like a tiny little chicken. “We’re not talking rocket engines here.”

“And all _I’m_ saying,” Sam counters, “is that it’ll throw off the balance.”

“Cheap, cheap.”

“Cute. Speaking of, do birds have extra thrust?”

“I haven’t taken a survey—”

“Do birds paint sparkly lightning bolts on their sides?”

“That was one time, Wilson.”

“I didn’t know they could get sick,” Steve is saying into his phone, sounding supremely puzzled. “Are you sure?”

“Do birds carry subwoofers?” Sam continues smugly.

“No, but birds don’t have four other limbs and steam-punk goggles either,” Tony volleys.

“Oh, jeez,” Steve says, still standing with his phone to his ear. “Is it serious?”

“I happen to like those goggles. They were given to me by someone very dear to me.”

“I know, I made them for your mom.”

Sam flips Tony off. Tony returns the favor. Sam chucks a pillow over the table and Steve bats it away from the sodas without looking. “Well, I don’t see how,” he says into the phone. “I Windex them every day, but I don’t know if it... Oh. Oh, do you carry that in antiviral?”

Sam launches another pillow. Steve bats it away. “No, no, I’m just saying, I have no idea where they would have picked up a virus. I keep a very clean house. Uh huh. Yeah. Uh huh.” He steps aside to avoid the kicking war Sam has started under the coffee table. There’s a pause, and then suddenly Steve goes so rigid you could bounce a feather off of his abs. “Excuse me, my _what?”_

Sam pauses, third pillow in hand, and glances at Steve. Raises an eyebrow at Tony.

Steve’s face is now absolutely thunderous. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. How dare you even suggest that I would own one of, of _those?”_

“What the hell?” Tony mouths. They both lean forward in their respective seats, frowning at Steve.

“Son,” Steve declares, “I’ll have you know that I am a good, God-fearing man. I would never let one of those nests of pornography and, and _information_ into my home. I have children, lots of very immature drunk children who... Well, I don’t know who _you’ve_ been talking to lately, but I own old-fashioned glass windows, not these newfangled Microsoft—You shut your heathen mouth!” Steve cries suddenly into the phone and Tony snorts soda right up his nose.

“JARVIS,” he wheezes, waving his hands helplessly, “re—ow! Record... record it...” 

“I most certainly will not ‘turn on my computer so you can help me,’” Steve barks, using finger quotes. “Computers are the devil’s handbag. It is written in the Book of Weenus, thou shalt not suffer a computer to—What? No, no, calling from a blocked number won’t save you from Divine Retribution. You give me your name right this instant, I’ll be reporting you directly to God—”

He stops and stares at his phone, then blinks at Tony and Sam. “He hung up on me.”

Tony can’t breathe, seriously, he _cannot breathe._ His lungs hurt. And Sam is laughing so hard he’s rolled right off the beanbag chair onto his face. He twitches spastically on the floor, kneading the carpet with both hands.

“If I may be so bold,” JARVIS says overhead, “that was exquisitely done, Captain.”

“Thank you, JARVIS.” Steve returns his phone to his pocket, comes back to the couch, and motions Tony upright.

“Asphyxiating,” Tony gasps, pawing at his throat as Steve hauls him off his side. “Holy mother of god.”

 _“‘You shut your heathen mouth,’”_ Sam whimpers into the carpet.

Steve plops down on the couch, tugging Tony bodily into his lap and slinging both arms around his middle. “The nerve of some people.”

“Psh.” Tony finally gets enough air to communicate. “Scamming Captain America. How dare they.”

“I think my harddrive is well taken care of,” Steve smirks, and noses into a lengthy kiss.

“You bet your sweet taut motherboard it is,” Tony murmurs.

“Have mercy,” Sam moans.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Because I got one of these calls this morning but was not awake enough to do it proper-like. ^_^


End file.
